


Conflicts and Amends

by Eleima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Conflict, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Internal Conflict, Romance, Sweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleima/pseuds/Eleima
Summary: Melwiliel Surana's world is thrown into disarray as she is compelled to leave her sheltered life at the Circle of Magi. But when she meets a former templar, conflicts are bound to arise. A retelling of DAO with a few twists.
Relationships: Alistair & Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	1. A Rude Awakening

Melwiliel Surana's eyes snapped open as someone shook her by the arm. “Come, Child. It is time,” hissed a low voice. The young apprentice crawled out of her bunk and swiftly slipped on her robes. In the darkness that permeated the apprentices' quarters, she could barely make out the silhouette of the templar waiting for her by the entrance of the dormitory. With a sigh and a shiver, she donned a pair of leather shoes and followed him.

The Tower's corridors looked much the same as they did during the day, and yet the young elven girl found herself intimidated by the shadows shrouding the familiar statues. The knowledge of what she was about to experience chilled her to the bone, and Melwiliel hugged herself as she hurried along, trying to match the templar's stride. It was always cold in the Tower, but it felt colder still now that she knew that she was to face her Harrowing.

All of her life at the Circle of Magi, the young girl had absorbed as much knowledge as possible, devouring tome after dusty tome, spending long evenings in the Tower's library. So perhaps it was the not knowing that she now feared. Not knowing what would happen. Amongst the apprentices, there were always whispers of the Harrowing entailed, but those were always rumors, nothing more. Some said one would have to fend off waves of summoned creatures, others said one would have to withstand the combined might of several instructors, while others still claimed that the apprentice would be compelled to enter the Fade and face a demon. Each theory seemed more fanciful than the next to Melwiliel who truly did not know what to think or expect. Apprentices were not allowed to read accounts of Harrowings past, and that was that. She would just have to deal with it, one step at a time.

Shaking the stray thoughts away, the young apprentice pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her slender, pointed ears and paid attention to her surroundings. They had long left behind the apprentices' quarters, as well as the senior mages' quarters, and were now entering the templars' quarters after having passed through the Great Hall. She had never set foot on this level of the Tower, and peered with interest around each corner as she passed. A few more torches lighted this corridor, but as it turned out, there was very little to see. When the doors weren't closed, all she could see was more bunks. Reining in her curiosity, the young girl sighed and followed her escort up the steps that led to the Harrowing Chamber.

The First Enchanter Irving was standing behind the Knight-Commander Greagoir, and there were two more templars beyond them. One of them wore his helm, just as her escort did, but the other she recognized as Cullen, a young templar who often stood guard in the halls of the apprentices' quarters. Melwiliel had a profound dislike of all templars (they were *always* watching), but this one never seemed... quite as stern.

As she neared the center of the Chamber, the Knight-Commander's voice echoed off the walls: “'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.' Thus spoke the Prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is a gift, but it's also a curse, for the demons of the Fade, the dream world, are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway into this world.” She had expected this preachy tone from the templar, but said nothing. The young elf had always viewed magic as a tool, not a curse: a knife could cut your bread for you, but you could also cut yourself.

The First Enchanter laid a hand on her shoulder and guided her towards a fount with a silver bowl: its contents shimmered slightly. “This is why the Harrowing exists. The ritual sends you into the Fade, where you will face a demon, armed only with your will. Remember, child, the Fade may be the realm of dreams, but your will is real, nonetheless.” The elderly mage smiled kindly, and the elf felt a wave of calm wash over her. Irving radiated kindness and confidence in her abilities, and it was a comfort of sorts.

“The apprentice must face this alone,” snapped the Knight-Commander.

“Yes, yes, Greagoir,” said the First Enchanter, before turning to the apprentice once more. “This is a trial by fire, one that we have all passed, one that I'm confident you will pass.”

“Enough. Let us get on with it, Irving.”

The First Enchanter only smiled and nodded, as Melwiliel took a step and placed her hand in the basin containing pure, unrefined lyrium.


	2. A Friend in Need

“Are you alright? Say something, please...”

Melwiliel was back in her bunk, still in her robes, and judging by the light filtering through, it must have been mid-morning. A very anxious and concerned apprentice was kneeling beside her.

“Please talk to me, Mel?”, he implored.

“Jowan, I... oh... ouch.” Her head throbbed.

“Thank the Maker, you're alright!”

“My splitting headache would suggest otherwise”, she chuckled as she rolled onto her side to face her childhood friend and fellow apprentice. Or perhaps no longer a fellow apprentice; with the Harrowing complete, she was now a full mage.

“Well, I'm glad you're not dead, at least. You were gone all night, and I'd heard that some never come back from their Harrowing. Was it dangerous? What was it like?”

A pang shot through her chest as she considered Jowan's questions: the rules were very clear on the matter, she was not to breathe a word about her Harrowing to those who had not undergone the ritual themselves. Yet she yearned to tell him about the Spirit of Valor, the Sloth demon, and the Black City, always in the distance, hanging in midair.

She frowned and chose her words carefully: “Jowan, I... please don't do this, you know I'm not allowed to speak of it. I would tell you everything if I could, but...”

“So you're going to be like that, huh? So much for friendship,” he pouted; but Melwiliel refused to yield to his demand. “It's just not fair! You've passed your Harrowing, and you're going to get to move upstairs, and get your own room, and I... I'm still stuck here.”

For the first time ever, the elven girl regarded her friend in a whole new light: he was reacting like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. Nevertheless, she attempted to comfort him the best she could.

“Don't worry, I'm sure it'll be any day now. Just keep working hard, and they'll come for you one night, as well.”

He looked up at her, and there was real fear in his eyes. “You don't understand, Mel. What if they come and fetch me, but not for a Harrowing, but for... a Rite of Tranquility.” His voice was almost muted as he spoke those last words with a shiver of horror. She understood, now, what he meant. After all, he had been at the Tower longer than she had, and she was Harrowed, now. The thought of Jowan becoming a Tranquil was like ice in her veins, and yet... the alternative was even direr.

“I'm sure your Harrowing can't be far off. Try not to think too much about it, it does you no good.”

He shrugged. “I guess I shouldn't waste your time with this. Especially since I'm supposed to tell you to go see Irving as soon as you're up.”

She jumped. “And you tell me this *now*?”

He grinned as he got to his feet to leave, “You'd better hurry; can't keep the First Enchanter waiting.”

“You... you toad!” she hissed good-naturedly as she gathered her wits and sat on the side of the bunk.

Jowan's smile vanished and he looked somber once more. “I'll... I'll see you later, then? To talk.” The elf simply nodded and rushed off to the adjoining washroom, while the young man returned to his duties.

Melwiliel was dragging a brush through her hair when two voices wafted in. It was Rhinna and Katherine, two younger, human apprentices, and the latter disliked the elven girl vehemently. Melwiliel ducked behind the vanity and hurriedly finished her preparations, while the two girls settled on a bunk at the far end of the women's dormitory, their voices barely audible.

“Did you hear anything? Is she alright? Is she awake?”

“Why do you care? Are you best friends now?” The scorn in Katherine's voice was palpable, and Melwiliel winced.

“I'm just curious,” retorted Rhinna. “That templar, Cullen, said it was the quickest, cleanest Harrowing he'd ever seen! He says she's very talented and very brave.”

“Ha! Well, he would, wouldn't he?” Melwiliel arched an eyebrow as she surveyed her general appearance in the mirror: what, in Andraste's name, did Katherine mean by that?

“I just know that I'll be terrified when my time comes. Like Wendell was. He was throwing up every day for the next week just thinking about his Harrowing...”

Finally ready and unwilling to eavesdrop any longer, young Mel got up and dashed out of the dormitory, ignoring confused stares as she ran past the apprentices.

~***~

The fledgling of a mage found herself in front of the First Enchanter's study, right hand raised to knock, and yet, she hesitated. From within, the source of her hesitation, came the muffled roar of arguing. In all likelihood, the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, she surmised. It was common knowledge, at the Circle, and in the rest of Thedas she assumed, that mages and templars rarely, if ever, got along. Apprentices weren't expected to have an opinion, but the constant watching had always made her feel uncomfortable: in the library, in the classrooms, even in the Great Hall during meal times! Perhaps even while they slept... *especially* when they slept...

Melwiliel shook her head, and knocked twice on the oak door. When the reply came, she entered. To her surprise, Irving and Greagoir were not alone: a tall, dark-haired man was with them. As all three men turned to examine the new arrival, the elf hurriedly lowered her gaze.

“You sent for me, First Enchanter?”

“Ah, there is our newest Sister of the Circle. Come here, child.” Irving smiled kindly and motioned for her to approach. Beside him, the Knight-Commander scowled.

“We'll talk later, Irving.”

“Of course, Greagoir.” The First Enchanter retrieved a few things from his desk before turning back to the newly Harrowed mage. “Let me be the first to officially welcome you to the Circle, here are your robes, your staff and your ring bearing the Circle's insignia. Wear them with pride, for you have earned them.”

Melwiliel accepted her new possessions with no small measure of emotion, emotion which she tried to keep from filtering through as she spoke. “Thank you very much, ser.”

The tall, bearded man beside Irving finally spoke: he had a rich, deep voice, a voice accustomed to commanding men on the battlefield, yet soft like velvet. “Allow me to congratulate you as well, my lady.”

Never, in all her life, did she recall anyone calling her “my lady”, and that flustered her a bit. “I... thank you, ser.”

“Child, this is Duncan, a Grey Warden,” explained the First Enchanter, and the Warden bowed a bit from the waist. “He leads the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden, and came to recruit mages for the King's army massing at Ostagar.”

Mel gave a start of surprise. “Are we at war?” asked the young elf. Rumors seldom made it across Lake Calenhad to the Tower, and this was news to her. She intently awaited a response. This time, the Grey Warden spoke.

“In a sense, we are. Vast hordes of darkspawn have been gathering in the Kocari Wilds, and I fear we may be facing a Blight. A few mages have already left, but it may not suffice. I seek to strengthen the King's army, and perhaps... add to our own numbers.” Well, that certainly explained much, yet raised more questions. Melwiliel was puzzled when she noticed the Grey Warden seemed pensive, but there was no time to ask more questions when the First Enchanter dismissed her.

“Well, run along now, child. This day is yours and yours alone; do not squander it with old men's talk of darkspawn, Blights and wars.”

She did as she was told.

~***~

Melwiliel's few possessions had already found their way into her new room, as she discovered to her delight. The Tranquil made her skin crawl, yet she could not deny that the Circle of Magi would not feel complete without them. As the mage donned and appraised her new robes, a soft knock was heard. It was Jowan, and he seemed even more sullen than he had appeared this morning.

“Admiring yourself, are you?”

“There's nothing wrong in a little pride, Jowan. This is a special day for me, you could at least *try* to be happy for me!” Somewhere, on the fringes of her consciousness, Melwiliel wondered if her Harrowing would create a rift between them, at least until Jowan was Harrowed himself. Things certainly seemed irreparable at this time, though.

Oddly enough, Jowan's expression softened at her harsh words and looked almost... hesitant. “I'm sorry, I've been snapping at you since you woke, but I'll explain everything. You see...” Jowan wrung his hands together, “they're going to make me Tranquil.”

“What?!?” Melwiliel's knees gave out and she sank unto the bed. It was one thing to know that the Tranquil were necessary to the Tower's survival, but quite another to have her bosom friend become one. “Are you sure? Wait a minute... how do you even know?”

Jowan sat beside her and took her hands between his and held her gaze with his own. “Mel, please, I'll tell you, but as my childhood friend, my sister, you *have* to help me.”

The young elf shuddered once again at the thought of her dearest friend undergoing the Rite of Tranquility and nodded emphatically. “Of course, Jowan, I'll do anything I can.”


	3. The Quiet Rest

The searing heat from the camp fire prickled Melwiliel's back as she wept into her blankets in a failed attempt to muffle the sobs that wracked her. She had some pride, after all, and wanted to salvage what little dignity remained. Although the limited privacy of their camp by the Imperial Highway made it more than likely that Duncan had heard her tears, perhaps he would be enough of a gentleman not to remark on them.

Leaving the Tower, the only home she could remember clearly, was just too much to bear. Not to mention that, as it turned out, she had been a complete and utter fool: how could she have not noticed anything out of the ordinary? And yet, the facts were these: Jowan had had a liaison with one of the Chantry's initiates, *and* he was a blood mage. Mel stifled another hiccup, as she pondered which was worse: that Jowan was a blood mage, or that he had lied to her. She honestly didn't know.

And now she was to become a Grey Warden herself. Despite the First Enchanter's assurances that she was one of the most promising young mages he had seen in years, she remained doubtful. Her talents were in the school of Creation, she knew next to nothing of offensive spells! She could barely conjure up a lightning bolt, after all! How, in the Maker's name, was she going to repel hordes of darkspawn? With a rejuvenation spell? She remained at a loss as to why Duncan had invoked the Right of Conscription, but of course, that had not been her choice to make.

As the sobs started to subside, the elf contemplated what *would* have been her choice. A life in the Tower, spending her days in research and perhaps one day, teaching, and her evenings in the Circle's libraries. There were so many books that had not yet been read: the ones apprentices were denied, for starters. And mayhap she would've been given an apprentice to teach a few years from now. She believed she would've liked teaching...

And of course, there was Jowan. She had genuinely hoped that his own Harrowing would come soon, that they would've celebrated their successes together. So much for *that* hope. Mel idly wondered where he was now: she offered a fervent prayer to the Maker, that Jowan would be safe, and warm, and fed. However... he was an apostate now, and it wouldn't be long until the templars found him, phylactery or no phylactery. *That* thought triggered another sobbing bout. Truly, as a Circle mage, this wasn't very dignified.

A few feet away, a branch snapped. Hastily wiping red-rimmed eyes, smoothing out matted hair, she sat up in the tangled mess of her blankets. It was Duncan, and he wasn't returning empty-handed, but with a small hare in his hands. She hadn't even noticed he was gone: thank the Maker!

“I thought you might be hungry. It's been a long day since we left the Tower this morning, and one gets quickly tired of those rations, believe me.”

At a loss for words, she simply nodded. Without a more forthcoming answer, Duncan sat on the other side of the fire and starting skinning the animal.

“You've never left the Tower, have you?” When the Grey Warden didn't look up, she knew she would have to speak. Melwiliel didn't trust her voice not to crack, but...

“Not since I was brought there. I was five, maybe six.” There! And barely any croaking at all! “But I was born in the alienage at Highever. Have you ever been there, ser?”

The dark haired man chuckled. “Please, please, just Duncan.” He paused as he deftly gutted the hare. “My father hailed from Highever. I spent most of my youth in the Free Marches and then with the Grey Wardens in Orlais. I've few memories of it, but it's nice enough, with the Waking Sea nearby...”

“We didn't have the sea at the alienage.”

“Ah.” Duncan still would not look at her as he placed the hare over the fire, so the elven mage asked the one question that plagued her.

“Why me?”

*That* certainly got his attention, his dark eyes boring into her as he gazed from across the camp fire. Undaunted, she ploughed on.

“I mean, there are so many mages more competent than I. As you saw when we set up camp, I can barely light a *candle*, let alone set ablaze a pile of wood! What makes you think that *I* can stand against darkspawn?” It was infuriating to see the man remain unmoved: Melwiliel was about to vent more of her frustration when a reply finally came.

“Grey Wardens bear a sacred burden; we protect the lands of Thedas. But now, a Blight is upon us, and we must not falter. There are few Wardens in Ferelden, at this time, and all are needed. Do not think that you will fight alone, though. Besides,” he adds with a small but warm smile, “you should be confident, as Irving is, that your abilities will grow in time.”

One word, however, had chilled the young girl to the bone. “A... Blight... You said that in the First Enchanter's study... I've read about it, but... are you certain?”

All at once, he became quite grave. “Aye... I am.”

~***~

Each and every single muscle in her body ached. The mage felt as if someone had beaten her with a stick from head to toe. A very large stick. Apprentices at the Circle of Magi weren't exactly accustomed to long marches in the countryside. Yesterday's trek was only beginning to smart, so she cringed at the thought of how she would feel when the second day's muscle cramps would flare up. At the pace Duncan was setting, she feared she would perish before they even got to Ostagar. Once more, she wished she was back in the Tower's libraries, never mind the cold and the drafts.

“How do you stand it? All this walking, and sleeping outdoors, and the rations...”

The Grey Warden looked up from the pit he was digging for the camp fire, and gave a deep, throaty chuckle.

“After so many years, I barely give it a second thought, but we don't usually travel so much. Much of our time is spent in the Denerim compound. But of course... these are strange and delicate times.”

Melwiliel nodded solemnly. After a brief pause, she decided to resume her questioning.

“What are they like? The other Grey Wardens?... Are they anything like you?”

This time, Duncan really, truly laughed, a loud, resonant laugh, and the mage vaguely wondered is she should be offended. Many of her questions seemed to amuse the older man, but she could detect no malice in him.

“And what would that mean, 'anything like me'?”

Slightly hesitant but still extremely curious, Melwiliel pursued her inquiries.

“Well, are there any mages? Are there any elves, like Garahel?” Garahel, the elven Grey Warden who had ended the Third Blight had always been an object of fascination to her, and she was always eager to meet more of her kind. That was a hope doomed to disappointment, it seemed.

“Unfortunately, neither, at this time. As I said yesterday, our numbers are few in Ferelden, and our members are not nearly as numerous or as varied as I would hope. I do intend to rectify that, though.” He smiled as he finished building the small pyramid of dry twigs and small logs. “Would you like to give it another try?”

Confused, Melwiliel gave a start before grasping that he intended *her* to light tonight's fire. The elf frowned, her brows furrowing together as she shoved all other thoughts aside in an attempt to concentrate. Her vision blurred as her eyes went out of focus, and she recited the appropriate incantation.

Nothing happened.

Sighing, she smothered the shreds of annoyance snapping at her, and posed herself to try again. This time, the twigs glowed a dim red before flames leapt up to lick the slender logs, and the elf sighed again, this time in relief, and perhaps a bit of triumph.

“Irving was right”, Duncan simply said.

This was a moment she would've liked to share with Jowan, not a man she barely knew, if at all. Once more, Melwiliel wondered where her friend was. She missed him.


	4. The Bustling Military Camp

People. People everywhere. People running, people standing guard, people milling about, people carrying weapons. Mostly men, some women, the vast majority of them humans, with a few elves scurrying along, clearly servants sent on some errand or the like.

Melwiliel stood in the midst of this flurry of activity, at the entrance of the King's camp in the Tevinter ruins of Ostagar, on the threshold of a maelstrom of movement, color, noise and smell. Even the mess hall at the Tower had never been this noisy nor this busy, and it had certainly smelled a lot better. The mix of leather, sweat and the acrid stench wafting over from the latrines was certainly overwhelming, and she tried to remember that this was not the Circle, but a sprawling camp, with an army of perhaps hundreds of thousands of souls. As if she could ever forget.

Regretfully shoving away daydreams revolving around a “mass cleansing” spell, the mage attempted to find her bearings. Although just a small fraction of the vast military camp, the King's camp was large enough that she could easily have gotten lost, wasting hours searching for what, or rather whom, she had been sent to find. Duncan had asked her to seek out the junior member of the order, a certain Alistair, while he himself fetched the two other recruits, but Melwiliel did not have an inkling of where to start looking. Thankfully, this was the moment a skittish red-headed elf burdened with arrow-filled quivers chose to rush by her.

“Excuse me!...”

He barely slowed down, and Melwiliel had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him, as the man peered at her out of the corner of the eye, over his burden. Most likely a servant. She seethed inwardly.

“Could you please tell me where I might find the Grey Warden named Alistair?”

“Actually, I just passed him. He's on his way to the old temple, back where I came from, past the Magi encampment,” came the terse answer. He eyed her robes warily.

The young mage thanked the man, and then the Maker for small miracles. She certainly had not expected to obtain an answer this easily, considering the odds. Turning heel, she made her way north.

Before too long, Mel found herself among Magi. A few were in the Fade, probably preparing for their next combat, and around them stood... templars, of course. She should have known the Chantry never let mages out of the Tower without an *escort*... And beyond them, she could make out Owain, the Tranquil who customarily ran the Circle's stockrooms, and next to him... Something lit up inside the young elf.

“Wynne?! Wynne!!”

Her task completely forgotten, she rushed up to her teacher, in leaps and bounds, utterly delighted to find a dear and familiar face.

“What?... Child, what in the Maker's name are you doing here? Is Irving sending apprentices, now?” The Senior Enchanter eyed Melwiliel's travel-stained robes. “But forgive me, it would seem congratulations are in order. You've been Harrowed, correct?”

Young Mel nodded breathlessly, and Wynne frowned.

“That still doesn't explain why the First Enchanter would've sent you to Ostagar, and alone to boot. Out with it, child!”

“I... I...” She hesitated, as she did not quite know how to phrase the unexpected, recent turn of events. Bluntness won out. “Duncan recruited me into the Grey Wardens.”

Understanding dawned on Wynne's face, and the Senior Enchanter slowly nodded.

“Ah... I see.”, she said with a warm smile. “Well, it's good to know that you were not traveling alone, at least.”

“But... but Senior Enchanter... I'm barely out of my apprenticeship, and I know next to nothing of offensive spells, as you might remember. Me? A Grey Warden? That's insane, Grey Wardens are heroes, guardians, warriors, defenders... I'm... I'm just...” Melwiliel's voice died in her throat as she caught sight of Wynne's patient smile. Finally, the white-haired woman spoke.

“Please, just Wynne, you're a mage now, and no longer my student. You've been taught well, child, by all of us at the Circle. Use what you know, and have faith in yourself. Whatever the circumstances that brought you to be here now, you must trust in the will of the Maker. Besides,” she chuckled, “I don't think Duncan is a fool, I've always believed that he had a good eye for potential. Don't forget that he'll always do what's best for the Wardens, first and foremost. Recruiting you was no accident. As for not being a warrior...” She furrowed her brows in annoyance. “Mages have always been pivotal in the fight against the darkspawn. Do not doubt that you could be just as instrumental as any of the others.”

The young Surana nodded solemnly, absently tugging at a few strands of black hair which had escaped the bindings of her ponytail. She *wanted* to have faith in herself, but it was quite another to actually *believe* that she was worthy of becoming a Warden.

“Ah, you young ones already know everything there is to know about life and the world anyway,” sighed Wynne. “I've said my piece, now run along. You probably have much more pressing business than speaking with an old woman, yes?”

“Thank you, Senior... Wynne. I will think on what you have said.” Melwiliel nodded, as she took her leave and resumed her search for this junior member of the Grey Wardens. As she walked away from the Magi encampment and its glaring templars, she didn't hear Wynne's grumbling.

“Well, at least she'll *think* on it... That's a start.”

~***~

A few more inquiries were necessary before she found the man she was looking for. He was speaking with another man, a Senior Enchanter who had always refused to teach apprentices, a tall, bald man by the name of Uldred. Neither man seemed particularly happy with what the other was telling him. As Melwiliel approached, she managed to make out bits and pieces of the conversation, and her heart sank when she realized she was going to interrupt yet another quarrel. It was the First Enchanter's study all over again.

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner! I am quite busy carrying out the King's orders, and have no time for a fool's errand!”

The younger man sighed. “I am simply delivering a message, ser mage.”

“Well, you can tell her I don't take orders from... templars!” Uldred nearly spat out the last word.

“Ah, and here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you... the grumpy one.” The man in splintmail armor was absolutely seething now, and the elven girl wondered if it wouldn't be safer to return later. Much later.

However, Uldred simply turned his back on the younger man, and walked away. “Enough! I refuse to be insulted in this manner!” Mel had to jump out of his way, murmuring apologies and nodding to the Senior Enchanter.

When she turned, the fair-haired young men was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed and head bowed. He look deeply, profoundly tired. Hesitating, Mel asked herself if this truly was the Alistair she had been sent to find. After all, Uldred had called him a templar, but he wasn't wearing the usual armor emblazoned with the sword of mercy.

Time stretched out as the mage dithered.

Finally, he looked up and saw her. “Oh, hello. Are you looking for something?” An incongruous question considering how bare the ruined old temple was.

Still unsure, Mel managed to croak out an answer. “I... well, I'm looking for Alistair, but you can't... I'm sorry,” She turned, about to flee back down the stairs, when his voice halted her.

“Wait! Wait! I *am* Alistair,” He caught up to her and groaned as he eyed her mage robes. “Oh, perfect, another mage.”

“You have a problem with mages?” hissed the elf, temper flaring up. Oddly enough, Alistair seemed taken aback in surprise.

“What? No! Absolutely not! It's just that my background usually makes mages nervous.”

“Oh, so you really are a... *templar*?” said Melwiliel as her mouth curled in distaste.

“No! I mean, yes. Well, in a sense.” stammered Alistair. “In short, I was training to become a templar when Duncan recruited me.” He paused and looked at her gingerly. “You're not going to turn me into a toad, are you?”

Melwiliel was speechless. Suddenly, it dawned on her that she must have looked extremely beside herself, not exactly surprising considering that she was entertaining furious thoughts about being saddled with a former templar. She chose her next words carefully.

“No, I'm not, don't be silly. I wouldn't know how!”

Alistair breathed in relief. “Well, thank the Maker for that. Listen, let's start over, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Alistair, and you are?...” He smiled expectantly.

“Melwiliel, mage of the Circle, Duncan's new recruit. He sent me to find you.”

*That* left him flabbergasted. He sputtered once more. “So... wait... *you're* the third recruit? But... you're a woman!”

“And do you have a problem with that, too?”

“Absolutely not. It's just that it occurs to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens, and there are none in Ferelden at this time.”

“Oh.” Well, well... Duncan certainly hadn't mentioned *that* when they had spoken. So she was to be the only elf, the only mage *and* the only woman in the Grey Wardens. Melwiliel suddenly felt alone. Very alone. A pang of grief stabbed her as she thought of the Tower, and its libraries, and Jowan... before she shoved it all aside and realized with a start that Alistair was still rambling.

“...not a drooling lecher or anything. Really.” Melwiliel's eyes narrowed to slits and he fidgeted under her stare. “Please don't look at me like that.”

“You're a very strange man.”

“Ha! You're not the first to say so. Well, shall we go find the others? Duncan, Ser Jory and Daveth, I mean.”

Nodding, she wordlessly fell in step beside Alistair and they made their way back to Duncan's tent, all the while peering at each other out of the corner of the eye, like a cat and a dog meeting for the first time.


	5. A Joint Endeavor

Before too long, the mage and the templar found themselves in front of Duncan's tent, and before them stood the man himself, arms crossed and looking decidedly incensed.

“Ah, you found each other, at least. Good. Alistair, what were you thinking, riling up the mage that way?”

Immediately chastened, Alistair threw Melwiliel a sidelong glance, and seemed about to ask which one Duncan was referring to. He opted for an apology instead.

“I'm sorry, Duncan, but I...”

“And carrying messages for the Revered Mother? I know I said we had to avoid antagonizing anyone, but really, you could have politely refused, suggesting an affirmed be charged with the task instead.”

Deep down, she knew it to be a sin, but Melwiliel couldn't suppress a perverse pleasure in seeing the young man receive such an upbraiding. She was lapping it up like a cat would a saucer full of milk.

“I know, Duncan, but she ambushed me. The way she wields guilt they should stick her in the army...”, grumbled Alistair, looking positively sullen.

“Aye.”, sighed Duncan. “And Uldred is not an easy man to deal with, I should know.” He stroked his dark beard as his gaze strayed from Alistair to Melwiliel. “And don't think I don't see you smiling so smugly, young mage. I know some habits are hard to break. However, Alistair is no longer a templar, but a Grey Warden, as you may yet become. I expect you to work together, all of you. Understood?”

Dumbfounded, the elf managed to mumble an “Of course, ser.”, as the grin slid off her face. Had she been so transparent? Apparently so. Discomfited by this realization, Mel tried to recall a few calming exercises: a mage had to remain in control at all times. Theory and practice were two very different things, nevertheless.

There was no time to muse on such thoughts, as two men approached the small gathering in front of the tent. The first was dark-haired, not exactly tall but lithe and slender; his disarming smile belied his shifty eyes. There was something odd about the man she couldn't quite place. The second, who followed closely behind, was broad shouldered, and carried himself with the assurance of one who has trained with weapons all his life. Duncan introduced them as Daveth and Ser Jory, respectively. Melwiliel started shifting uncomfortably as the new arrivals studied her, and then the wiry one spoke.

“So you're the third recruit, then? Well... you're not what I expected.”

She didn't know whether to roll her eyes or scream out in frustration, but just sighed.

“And what *did* you expect then, pray tell?”

“Well, not a woman,... and not an elf,... and not a... a mage. Yet here you are.”

“Daveth, does it matter?” asked Ser Jory. He had a mellow voice, and seemed more withdrawn, less outspoken. This was a man accustomed to taking orders and doing as he was told.

“Actually, Jory, it does. It's certainly a nice change from you!” He turned back to the young elf. “You see, we've been waiting for Duncan to arrive with you for a few days now. About bloody time you showed up! I was beginning to think they had cooked up this ritual for our benefit...” Ser Jory just shook his head, but this certainly caught her attention.

“Ritual? What ritual?” She turned and saw Duncan and Alistair approaching with a few packs in their hands. Mel hadn't even noticed that they had been gone, and she shivered at the thought of what consequences could result of such inattention in the upcoming battle. She wasn't looking forward to facing darkspawn.

“Before you become a Grey Warden, there is a secret ritual we call the Joining which you must undergo.”, answered Duncan. “I'm sorry you must face another trial with the Harrowing so close behind you, young lady, but there is no way around it.” The Grey Warden turned to all three recruits. “But before the Joining takes place, you must go out into the Wilds and bring back three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each of you.”

Daveth flashed a roguish grin. “We're going into the Wilds? I knew it.”

Duncan simply sighed and gestured to the bags he and Alistair had brought. “Divide these supplies amongst yourselves, they might be of some use.” When that task was completed, Alistair finally spoke.

“As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you.”

“One last thing,” added Duncan, “there is a ruin not far from here, a tower which used to be a Grey Warden stronghold. In it, you may find remnants of its archives which contained the treaties signed by the different peoples of Ferelden. Bring these back if you can.” Alistair nodded soberly, as the recruits shouldered their respective packs, and Duncan laid a hand on Alistair's shoulder. “Watch over your charges, Alistair, and be back by nightfall. I will prepare for the Joining.”

As Duncan headed back to the Magi Encampment, Daveth quipped: “Well then, into the Wilds we go!”

~***~

Her entire body vibrated and hummed with the thrill of fear and excitement. The Warden and the three recruits were pretty far from Ostagar now, plunging ever deeper into the Wilds. At least she didn't have to endure that pungent, acrid stench that had assailed her nostrils back at camp. Out here, the air was moist and thick, and her skin prickled as she saw the large, dark clouds hung low in the sky. There was the promise of the storm somewhere in that humidity. Perhaps tonight...

“Come on, mageling, keep up!”

She startled at the sound of Daveth's voice and caught up to him. Melwiliel hadn't realized she had been gawking at the wide expanses that surrounded them. Although there had been the days of travel along the Imperial Highway, this incursion into the Kocari Wilds drove home the fact that she was really *outside* the Tower. All around them, there was nothing else but the wilderness.

Or so she believed. As Alistair and Jory, who had taken point, rounded a knoll, both man gasped and signaled for the others to advance cautiously. Exchanging puzzled looks, Daveth and Mel followed. She too gasped in horror when she discovered oxen and soldiers, slaughtered, strewn amongst the wreckage of a few wagons.

“Darkspawn attack.” Alistair spat out the bitter words.

“Oh Maker...” Jory was visibly shaken by the carnage. “There are so many... How does Duncan expect the four of us to survive out here?!? There could be an entire army of darkspawn hiding nearby, and we wouldn't know until they were upon us!”

“Be still, ser knight. One of the reasons I'm accompanying you is that Grey Wardens can sense large groups of darkspawn,” said Alistair. “I assure you we are in no danger of running into the main horde. However, there may be stragglers, and we should...”

“Look!” Melwiliel cried out as she ran past the three men, skidding to a stop and falling to her knees beside a soldier she had just seen move. She swiftly fell in the familiar pattern of examining the man as the soft jingle of armor behind her told her the others had rejoined her. She felt at the man's neck for the telltale ebb and flow of his lifeblood: it was still there, but very faint. Ignoring questions and the entire outside world, the mage fell inward and became the healer.

As she cast the spells, furiously working in the hope of saving at least one of the soldiers, her hands hovered over the gaping wounds.

“Is she turning him into a toad?”

Daveth. In the back of the elf's mind, she could almost hear Wynne's voice: “Concentrate, child!” Staying centered, feeling the flow of energy that spills out of the Fade, keeping focused... And beneath her fingers, breaches in arteries mended, tendons snapped back together, muscles knitted themselves and skin closed up. The soldier gave a ragged, gasping breath, the sound of a man brought back from the brink, and Melwiliel sagged, completely limp from exhaustion.

As Jory supported the healed soldier while Daveth cleaned his superficial cuts, Alistair helped her up.

“That was a kind thing you did, but not exactly prudent, now was it?” The Warden arched an eyebrow as she shook the dust off her robes. She wasn't about to admit that she was indeed nearly drained, and had never before attempted to heal such extensive injuries.

“Perhaps you would have rather let him die, then?”

With a scowl, Alistair turned back to the now conscious soldier who was telling Daveth and Jory how his entire patrol unit had been wiped out by marauding darkspawn. Melwiliel seized this opportunity and downed a lyrium potion while none watched. Steadying herself with her staff, feeling slightly more refreshed, she joined the men.

“Thank you, my lady! Thank you!” Then, all of a sudden, the soldier was holding both her hands in his, her staff clattering to the ground; she really hoped he wasn't going to kiss them. “May the Maker bless you, you saved me!”

“I... um...” She literally didn't know what to say.

Daveth winked at her. “Well then! Now you know we're not keeping you around just for your looks!” Seething inside, she ultimately decided not to gratify him with an answer.

Finally, the soldier relinquished her hands, and started back towards the Ostagar ruins, using his sword as a crutch; the man would need plenty of rest, but he would live, and that, in itself, was a small victory.

Sighing, her gaze dropped from the retreating soldier to the ground, searching for the staff the First Enchanter had given her.

“Oh.” Alistair had it, and held it out for her. “Thank you.”

“Let's get a move on.”

~***~

Kneeling in a bush by a pool of stagnant water, the mage retched, emptying her stomach of all its contents. Their small band had just encountered a few hurlocks and genlocks, and she still reeled from the fear that had sent her stomach roiling. Nothing, no stories, no advice, not any description in any book in any of the Tower's libraries, could have prepared her for this. She heaved once more.

In retrospect, though, it had all happened so fast. Ser Jory and Alistair had been upon the hurlocks in an instant, cleaving into limbs and torsos alike, with a sickening sound, while Daveth had let arrow upon arrow fly towards the genlock archers. It had been all she could do to stay out of the way, and keep casting healing and rejuvenating spells. In fact, she had nearly forgotten that her staff could fire arcane bolts, and only started using those towards the end of the skirmish when her healing skills had been most needed. But at least she hadn't gotten anyone killed, and she was still alive herself, so that was something to be thankful for.

Sitting up and spitting out the bitter taste bile had left on her tongue, Melwiliel offered up a silent prayer to the Maker. As the mage got to her feet, she heard a cough behind her and turned to see Ser Jory, smiling and holding out his waterskin to her. Gratefully, she thanked him with a nod and washed down the bile that tinged her throat. However, when she lowered the waterskin, handing it back to him, there was now a smirk on the knight's usually placid face.

“What now?”

Blushing, Jory shook his head ruefully. “Forgive me, I mean no disrespect. It's just that...” His expression lit up with the first genuine smile she had ever seen on him. “You remind me of my Helena.”

Eyes widening, the elf was shocked speechless by his words; in fact, she never would have expected to hear such a thing. Once more, her face must have betrayed her.

“Ah, I beg your pardon.” he chuckled. “It seems I cannot make my meaning clear today... My wife, Helena, is with child, and not a day went by, at first, that didn't see her running for the privy to empty her stomach.” Furrowing his brow, Jory turned and gazed out into the endless stretches of the Kocari Wilds. “The child will come with the spring.”

Melwiliel was at a loss for words: she felt as if she was intruding on the man's private recollections of his wife, and although the words had been freely offered, she wondered if he hadn't been thinking out loud, just a bit. A question, however, came unbidden.

“You left your wife behind?”

“Absolutely not.” he answered with a shake, turning to face her once more. “I did not *leave* my wife, it's nothing of the sort. I'll just return to her, once I become a Grey Warden, after the Blight is defeated, of course.”

The Redcliffe knight seemed awfully sure of that. All Melwiliel could remember reading of the Grey Wardens was battle after battle, hunting down darkspawn, and when the time came, seeking out the archdemon in order to end the Blight. Nothing about living out their lives in the comfort of their own homes surrounded by children, grandchildren and friends. Garahel himself had died in the fight which had led to the archdemon Andoral's demise, after all. Of course, family had never been an option for her, as a mage, but she marveled that such a thought had never occurred to Ser Jory. She didn't have the heart to remark on it though.

“Perhaps we should rejoin the others, and find those treaties, then?”

Further along the trail, they found Alistair cleaning his sword and Daveth retrieving salvageable arrows from darkspawn corpses. Together, they resumed the search for the ruined Grey Warden archive.

~***~

Duncan, Alistair and the three would-be Wardens were back in the ruined temple at Ostagar, each recruit clutching a vial of darkspawn blood while Alistair stowed away the sealed treaties. The remainder of their expedition had been rather uneventful, if battling scores of darkspawn could indeed be called uneventful. After a few hours, they had finally found the ruins they sought, and the treaties it held, returning to the army's camp as dusk fell. And now they waited for Duncan to start the Joining ceremony. Although the night air was far from chilly in the summer's eve, Melwiliel shivered.

At long last, Duncan approached, retrieving each vial and emptying them in a large cup. “Alistair, if you please...”

“Join us, brothers and sisters.” he recited solemnly. “Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that, one day, we shall join you.”

“You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.” added Duncan as he motioned for Daveth to step forward.

The lithe archer took the cup, jesting once more. “Well... in for a silver, in for a crown as my dear old mum used to say!” He drank.

Within minutes, Daveth collapsed to the ground, gagging and choking, and Melwiliel barely managed to keep herself from rushing to the dying man. Duncan had been extremely clear on the matter, no one was to interfere in the battle between man and taint. Before too long, he was dead.

The leader of the Grey Wardens then looked over at the knight who was staring, wide-eyed in horror, at the inanimate body. “Step forward, Ser Jory.”

His hand flew in panic to the hilt of his sword, and he drew it. “No, wait! I have a wife... a child on the way! You ask too much, had I but known!...” His eyes darted from Duncan to Daveth's body, back and forth. Moving deliberately, the senior Grey Warden handed the cup to Alistair, drawing his own weapon.

“There is no turning back now, Jory.” answered Duncan with poise, advancing in a cat-like fashion.

“There is no glory in this!” shrieked the knight, now positively frantic, as he launched himself at the Grey Warden. A flurry of blows erupted, but the scuffle was short-lived, as Jory slumped limply to the ground, his glassy eyes staring into oblivion. Mel stifled a yelp, clasping her hands together, wringing them in horror. Once more, she dared not interfere.

“Step forward, Melwiliel.” This time, Duncan's voice seemed to resonate as some part of the mage's mind hysterically babbled something about the correct pronunciation of her name. She took one step, accepting the cup that Alistair held out for her.

The contents had the crisp mint-like aroma of lyrium, overpowering the bitter smell of darkspawn blood. Suddenly, the Harrowing Chamber flashed before her eyes. This scene was all too familiar to the young mage, and she knew there was nothing else to do but press on.

She drank, and a heartbeat later, jolts of pain shot through her body as she fell away into darkness.


	6. A New Dawn

The ground was a cold, hard, unforgiving place to lie upon, even in the summer, and as that stark thought occurred to her, Melwiliel realized that she was still alive. And trembling from head to toe as well, she noticed as she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the aftershocks of the searing pain to run their course through her.

“I think she's coming around, Duncan.”

Walling off the outside world, the mage attempted to center herself while she rode out the waves of agony that struck her, waiting for them to subside. Although she had initially compared the Joining to the Harrowing, the two rituals' differences now stood out in sharp contrast. At least she had had some measure of control in the battle of wills that had been the Harrowing; all she could now do was hold on for dear life as the poison that was darkspawn blood battered her. Time stretched out, endlessly, and she felt trapped in the moment.

When, at long last, the tremors subsided and the pain retreated to a small, dark, throbbing corner next to her heart, she opened her eyes. Duncan and Alistair hovered over her, the older man's expression smooth and unreadable, while the younger man's face was full of concern. Behind them, each star stood out sharply in the night as a deep rumble was heard in the distance.

“It is finished. Welcome to the Grey Wardens.” said Duncan as they helped her up. “How do you feel?”

“I'll be alright.”, she nodded shakily.

“Very well. Alistair will give you your pendant, and accompany you back to my tent. I'll join you there shortly, once the King's war council is completed.” With one last look at the newest Warden, he disappeared into the shadows enveloping the stairs that led from the ruined old temple, leaving the two of them alone.

Oddly enough, one of the first things Melwiliel noticed was that she had been unconscious long enough for Jory and Daveth's bodies to be taken away, the old stones scrubbed clean of the knight's blood, all traces of their passage erased. Just like apprentices vanished into thin air when they failed their Harrowing. And although she lamented it, she now understood the need for secrecy.

Then, suddenly, it struck her. Everything seemed crisp, more immediate, more real. She could see the ridges in each stone as they met and formed the temple floor; blades of grass stood out sharply against the whitened flagstones. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Hey! You awake?” The mage's attention was jerked back to the now, realizing that Alistair had been speaking to her for some time.

“Oh. Yes. I just had this... odd feeling...”

“Well, drinking darkspawn blood can do that to you, you know.” He held out his closed fist, opening it to drop a silver pendant into her open palm. “Here you go. The last part of the Joining. We take some of that blood and put it in there. Something to remind us of those who didn't make it this far.”

“Oh, a templar is giving jewelry to a mage? How sweet.” came the acerbic reply.

Alistair rolled his eyes, sighing. “Do you *have* to do that? You could just say 'thank you', you know. Besides, we're both Grey Wardens now, not mages or templars.”

“Old habits die hard, isn't that what Duncan said?” answered the elf with a small smile. “But I will *try* to remember that.” As if the Joining and the agonizing pain hadn't driven that home. She fumbled with the clasp as she donned the pendant, slipping it beneath her robes, and followed him out of the ruined old temple.

They hadn't gone far when Alistair glanced at her warily, as if he feared she would explode if prodded too much. “You know... you *could* be a little nicer...”

“I... could.” she conceded ungraciously with a smoldering glare. Of course, it was difficult not to unleash years of repressed resentment, especially when it was rather certain that the target would not strike her down for being an impertinent mage on the verge of abomination. Mel resolved to keep her rancor checked and was about to voice her own begrudging apology, when a dark haired man with weathered skin leapt in their path.

“Pardon me, sers, but... are you Grey Wardens?” When the pair nodded simultaneously, he continued. “Forgive me, good sers, I'm the kennel master here in the King's camp, and I was hoping, maybe to ask for your assistance with a few of the dogs that got the taint. Seeing as you're immune to it...” He gazed at them expectantly.

The mage turned to Alistair, waiting for his response, as years of deferring to superiors kicked in. And then the oddest thing happened, startling her into a shocked silence.

“Well, don't look at me!” he told her with a shrug and a sheepish smile. “I'm not much of a dog person.”

Huffing an exasperated sigh, the young woman motioned for the kennel master to lead the way to the sickened mabari hounds.

~***~

Melwiliel had had precious little experience with animals, growing up in a Tower full of books, dusty scrolls and distillation apparatus. There had been a few cats in the kitchens, to keep the mice away from the grain sacks, but they were nothing next to the massive mabari hounds they had helped care for. She had read and heard quite a lot about these prized dogs, it had been something else entirely to be confronted with the real thing. Hoping at least some of the mabaris would survive the darkspawn taint, however unlikely that was, Melwiliel turned her attention back to her packing.

Although their earlier excursion in the Wilds hadn't depleted their resources, Alistair had insisted on acquiring basic necessities for life out in the open, such as bedrolls, tents, and a few cooking utensils. “You never know what can happen in a battle”, he had simply said, adding in an afterthought that one could end up separated from comrades, left to fend for oneself. Melwiliel hadn't dared answer that she had never once cooked in her entire life, and that, if such a thing happened to her, she would probably end up in some wild animal's stomach.

When thoughts of the coming battle and its potential consequences made her insides writhe once more, she firmly shoved aside such musings and got to her feet with the help of her staff. Her first impulse had been to lash the thing to the back of her pack, an impulse ultimately discarded in favor of keeping it close at hand. Especially considering her dismal talent in offensive magics.

As Melwiliel stood, Duncan finally returned from the war council and informed them of the king's battle plans. The Wardens were to fight with King Cailan, engaging the darkspawn head on, while Teyrn Loghain would attack the flank of the enemy horde, charging only when signaled. Then, Duncan added that Alistair and Melwiliel would be tasked with light the beacon at the top of the tower of Ishal.

“What?!?” came the resounding, disbelieving cry, simultaneously, from both junior Wardens. “I thought we would be fighting with the rest of you.” continued Alistair. “Can't we have a foot soldier take care of this?”

Melwiliel offered up no further protest when Duncan remained adamant: the less combat she saw, the better she fared, in her opinion. And the more food she kept in her stomach. Alistair, however, didn't see things the same way.

“I just thought I'd be fighting with the rest of you, not standing on the top of some crumbling tower, waving a flickering torch.” he grumbled. “Fine, then, if it's what you and Cailan want. But I'm warning you, if he ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

While Duncan only sighed, the same deep sigh of a long-suffering parent, Mel stifled an undignified squawk of surprise at the young man's uncharacteristic, flippant response. Meanwhile, her ever curious mind wondered at his lack of deference when referring to Fereldan's king. The leader of the Grey Wardens remained undeterred and repeated their instructions.

“Just go to the Tower, Alistair, and light the beacon when signaled.”

“Can't we at least join you once that's done?”

A muted groan of protest escaped the mage's lips.

“No, the both of you are to guard the beacon.” said Duncan as he shook his head. “I want no argument on this.”

“But what if the Archdemon shows himself?” pleaded the younger man.

“No heroics out of you”, was the sharp answer, the man's eyes dark and piercing. “If it does happen, you leave it to the rest of us. Understood?” He seemed almost angry as he retrieved the gauntlets he had discarded earlier.

“Yes, Duncan.” muttered a sobered Alistair.

When the dark-haired man saw the chastened expression as he straightened, he softened, adding: “Just be patient, Alistair. There will be plenty of battles.”

“That's the most sensible thing I've heard all day.” muttered Melwiliel, and that drew a warm chuckle from Duncan.

“Just remember that you are both Grey Wardens and strive to be worthy of the title. Your teachers taught you well, but from here on, you're on your own.” He retrieved his pack. “I must rejoin the others, the battle is about to begin.”

As Duncan turned to leave, Alistair grabbed the older man by the arm. “Duncan, I...” he stammered before continuing with a sigh, “May the Maker watch over you.”

“May the Maker watch over us all,” countered Duncan with a solemn nod. And with that, he dissolved into the darkening shadows of the night.

Alistair stared vacantly until Melwiliel gingerly prodded him, motioning that they should leave. As they gathered their equipment and made their way across the gorge, a deafening hush settled on Ostagar, that muted stillness which preceded the din of battle, broken only by the increasingly loud roar of thunder and lightning. It wasn't long before the sky tore open, large drops of rain falling from the heavens.

“Alistair”, ventured the elven girl, nervous with trepidation, “you're a lot taller than I am... Why don't *you* stand up there, waving that 'flickering torch'? They'll see it much better than if I was holding it...”

“Tell you what,” he answered with a small, wry smile. “If you hold the torch, I'll let you stand on my shoulders, and then they're *bound* to see the signal...”

Mel grinned.

~***~

Perhaps things weren't going so well after all. Just as the young mage started to feel cautiously optimistic about surviving the Joining and being kept away from the bulk of the fighting, violence erupted. And not just on the battle field. When the young Wardens arrived on the grounds of the Tower of Ishal, the darkspawn had been waiting for them. They had barely managed to regroup with the unit of foot soldiers which had been ordered to guard the way to the beacon, and fighting their way to the top had been a grueling business.

It was all she could do to remain standing. Mel had spent so much time worrying about her offensive magic, never a moment doubting her healing skills. Three men had already perished; the first had taken four arrows to the chest, dying before he even hit the floor; the second had been swiftly decapitated by a hurlock's axe; the third's life had ebbed away, out of gaping wounds, faster than she could work. In each and every case, there had been nothing she could do, and that alone tore at Melwiliel's heart. She had been so sure of her healing abilities that she had not been prepared for the sting of failure. And above all, the waste of life made her furious.

The grunts of henlocks and the battle cries of the men brought her back to the task at hand, and she readied her staff. As the magical bolts sped towards the darkspawn, she stole a few glances at Alistair, her fellow Warden, while he deftly deflected a henlock's lunges with his shield. Studying the flurry of blows, Melwiliel decided she was rather glad they fought on the same side, templar or no.

With the last of the darkspawn dispatched, the mage moved through the fighters, healing cuts, bruises and gashes alike as she passed. When she stopped in front of Alistair, however, she couldn't resist.

“I hope you're happy; weren't you complaining that we weren't taking part in the battle?”, she offered lightly.

But he didn't have the heart to answer in kind, as he darkly shook his head. “I don't understand... What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here! We're losing precious time, we're going to miss the signal, if we haven't already! I...” He sighed.

That's when Melwiliel *really* started to worry. “Come on, we should keep moving.”

~***~

Finally, the long climb to the top of the Tower of Ishal was at an end. Their small band had found no survivors, sadly only more genlocks, henlocks, giants spiders and corpses. There were always more corpses. The mage's heart was heavy with fatigue and grief. She was amazed at how Alistair had managed to rally, though, always pressing on, leading the others into the fray.

“Here!” he cried. “There beacon is over here! We've surely missed the signal by now, let us light it quickly, before it's too late...” His hands shook feverishly as he shifted through his pack, seeking his tinder box. Without a word, she knelt beside him as he lit the bonfire. This wasn't the time for barbs or levity.

Before too long, there was a searing blaze in front of them, and they had to stand and back away from the scorching heat.

“There.” triumphed Alistair. “Teyrn Loghain had better be ready to charge...”

Melwiliel only nodded in response. Just as she felt ready to sigh in relief herself, a low growl rumbled off the old stones, and and as they turned, a towering ogre emerged from the shadows.


	7. Best-Laid Plans

A whimper escaped Melwiliel's lips as she emerged from the depths of a restless sleep, her eyes thick with slumber, barely registering her surroundings. Thick wooden beams supporting a ceiling finally came into focus, and she realized with a start that she was wearing nothing but her shift underneath heavy woolen blankets. Waves of heat emanating from a stone fireplace made the warmth almost uncomfortable. Beside the blaze, a dark haired woman was sitting with her back to Mel, grinding herbs with her mortar and pestle.

The rustle of wool against linen sheets must have given the elf away as the woman straightened from her work, turning to face the mage before crossing to the other side of the room. She studied her intensely with glittering yellow eyes, her gaze sharp and almost predatory. Melwiliel suddenly felt uneasy.

“Ah, your eyes finally open.” said the golden-eyed woman. “Mother shall be pleased.” With no further information forthcoming, Mel found herself compelled to ask the obvious questions.

“Who...? Where am I? What happened?” She could remember the last moments in the Tower of Ishal clearly. The ogre. Alistair thrown clear across the room like a child's discarded rag doll. And behind the ogre, genlock archers pouring in through the stairway. The last thing she remembered was the piercing agony of arrows entering her stomach as she had rushed to Alistair's side. And then, utter nothingness. Sitting up gingerly in the bed, Melwiliel eagerly awaited the other woman's reply.

“You are in the Wilds, in our home. After you were injured, Mother rescued you and another, managed to save you, though 'twas a close call.”

“I suppose I should thank the both you, then. I am called Melwiliel or Mel, by the way.”

“And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish”, she replied. “Mother asked to see you when you awoke. Perhaps we should find you something to wear, however.” It became glaringly apparent that Mel's mage robes had not survived the damage inflicted upon them in Ostagar, and she was relieved to find her spare set in her pack.

“I have so many questions, if you please” said the elf as she dressed uncomfortably under the young woman's watchful stare. “Who is the other you spoke of? How did your mother save us? Do you know anything of the outcome of the battle at Ostagar?”

“Questions! Questions!” cried Morrigan. “Well, if you must know, the other is a suspicious, dim-witted man. I would not be in any hurry to meet him, were I you.”

Melwiliel had thought it too much to hope that her fellow Grey Warden had survived.

“Regarding your rescue,” continued the dark-haired woman, “I wonder at that myself, but Mother tells me nothing; you shall have to ask her yourself. As for the battle, your companion left a few hours ago to scout what is left of the battlefield. I should warn you, however, that the darkspawn appear to have slaughtered the bulk of your army, routing the rest of it.”

The grim reality crashed home as Melwiliel realized she was alone in the Wilds, in some strange house. Her eyes searched for her staff and her fingers gratefully closed around it as she shouldered her pack.

“Perhaps... perhaps I should thank your mother, and be on my way.”

“Very well.” replied Morrigan. “Follow me.” The elf's stomach grumbled discontentedly and amusement danced in the glittering golden eyes. “A stew is simmering outside.”

“Stepping out in the open, Melwiliel immediately noticed the strong aroma of the stew, and only slightly fainter, the ubiquitous scent of dampness that pervaded the Wilds after a downpour. The sun was setting, low on the horizon to her left, leading her to believe that she had slept through the night and the following day. Not too surprising considering her injuries.

Beside the bubbling pot sat a withered old woman, her thin white hair framing a lean face. But when she looked up, noticing Melwiliel's approach, the mage saw there was nothing frail in that hard, piercing gaze. A family trait, perhaps.

“Awake at last, lass?” breathed the old woman in a croaking voice. “Good! You have much to do.”

Shocked at the unexpected bluntness and a bit nervous at being in the presence of an apostate, the young woman cautiously lowered herself to the ground, across the elder woman. She chose her words carefully.

“I understand I have you to thank as well.”

“As well?” said Morrigan as she rounded the fire and sat beside her mother. “I am no healer, 'twas all Mother's doing.” So not one, but *two* apostates.

“Indeed. Morrigan's talents lie elsewhere.” added the old woman, as she filled some bowls with the stew. “Your injuries were severe, but there was nothing the darkspawn did that I could not heal.” She handed a bowl to Mel before serving Morrigan.

“I'm very curious about something, if I may... How did you manage to reach us, at the Tower of Ishal?”, inquired the elf.

The old woman's lips curled slightly in a knowing smile as she inhaled the aroma which rose from the bowl. “Hmm... Let's just say that Morrigan and I are far from defenseless.” No doubt about it now: these women had to be the infamous Witches of the Wilds. Melwiliel carefully set her bowl of stew before her, gathering her jet-black hair in its customary ponytail. As she took a little longer than usual, she studied the two women through her eyelashes. Once they had tasted their own stew, Mel picked up the bowl. It never hurt to be overly careful, even though it wouldn't have made much sense to heal her wound only to poison her meal hours later.

As they ate in silence, the sun sank even lower, bathing the hut and its surroundings in an orange glow. Mel kept her questions in check as her mind raced. Had the battle gone as badly as Morrigan had said? If so, had Ostagar fallen? How would she rejoin the other Wardens? What would she tell the others, that she had failed in the first task that had been given to her, and worse yet, that she had been unable to prevent the fall of her fellow Warden? Melwiliel's throat tightened as she summoned up all these uncertainties into a single question: what now? If she was perfectly honest with herself, the elf had to admit that she didn't have a clue.

Now, more than ever, she missed the Tower. And she missed Jowan. In a rueful chuckle which drew pointed glances from Morrigan and her mother, the mage admitted that she would have been somewhat comforted by the familiar sight of a *templar*, of all things!

Melwiliel knew from experience that healing demanded as much from the healer as it did from the patient, and, sure enough, she was absolutely ravenous. As she helped herself to a fourth bowl of stew, a dark silhouette detached itself from a knoll. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun's last rays, Melwiliel could not make out who the figure was, but Morrigan's eyes were sharper.

“Ah, marvelous. Seems your friend is back from his little scouting trip.” she muttered in a clipped, sarcastic tone.

Eager to rejoin the Ferelden soldier, the elven mage scrambled to her feet, and met the man loping down the small hill. As Melwiliel plunged into the shadow it cast, she was startled to come face to face with a man who was no common foot soldier.

“Alistair!?!”

“Oh, how sweet, you remembered my name.”

While the surprise of seeing her fellow Warden alive and well was slowly sinking in, that didn't keep her from spluttering incoherently.

“But... you... I mean... the ogre! Didn't you?... I thought...” Mel managed to compose herself with a deep, shuddering breath. “That ogre had just tossed you aside... I was certain you were dead.”

“He did bruise a few ribs and knocked me out cold, but you were a lot worse.” He glanced warily at Morrigan and her mother, as he took Melwiliel by the arm and dragged her further away from the cookfire. “Listen, we need to talk.” he told her in a hushed, almost conspiratorial voice. “Things are looking pretty grim right now.”

“Say what you will, I'm just glad we're still alive!”

“Well, you won't be for long. Glad, I mean.” His dark scowl and serious tone left her disquieted; this certainly sounded ominous. Alistair drew a hand across his face, looking ragged and despondent. “They're dead.” he said simply, with a frightening finality. “They're *all* dead. Cailan, Duncan, the Wardens... All of them. We're the only ones left.”

They stood there as time seemed to draw out like a blade, neither one daring to speak. The enormity of the situation threatened to drive the mage hysterical, and she fought the shock wave with what little calm she could muster, asking a single question.

“Are you certain?”

A short, solemn nod was his only answer as he looked at her somewhat expectantly.

“So... what do we do now, Alistair?”

“Me? You're asking me? Maker's breath, how am I supposed to know?”

“Well, you had better think of something, and right quick!” she hissed back, spurts of panic bubbling through the calm facade. “I have been a Grey Warden for a grand total of one day, *one* day! And I was asleep most of that time!” The fierce whisper was now closer to a shriek, and once more, Melwiliel struggled to compose herself. “What is expected of me?”

The former templar appeared exhausted and a great deal older as he sighed, running his fingers through his short hair.

“I'm not exactly sure... We could try to rejoin Teyrn Loghain's forces; they seem to have withdrawn, as far as I could tell. We could also head for Redcliffe, I have...” he hesitated. “...friends there. We could get a message to the Wardens in Orlais from there. Don't forget I was only a Warden for six months,” he added, suddenly apologetic. “All I know is that this is a Blight, and...”

“So we kill the Archdemon, then?”, she interrupted.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Of course, now why didn't I think of that?”, he scoffed, the barbed words practically dripping with sarcasm as he crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow. “We'll just stomp off to Orzammar then, knock on the great big doors, ask the dwarves for directions, and go slay the Archdemon in its lair in the Deep Roads after wading through hordes of darkspawn.”

Something he said tickled dimly at her memory, and Melwiliel stared at him with wide eyes and a dawning comprehension.

“What did you just say?”

“Huh? About the Deep Roads and hordes of darkspawn?” He frowned.

“No, no, no, no, no... *Before* that!”

“We could ask the dwarves for dir–“

“Yes, that's it!” the mage cried as she pummeled his chest furiously with her small, ineffective fists, surprising herself with the unexpected outburst. “Oh Alistair, please tell me you still have the treaties!”

“The... the treaties?” he stammered, eyes widening. Maybe Morrigan was right, maybe he *was* dim-witted.

“The ancient treaties signed after the First Blight, the treaties we found in the ruins of that old Warden archive, the treaties you brought back to Duncan, the treaties he told you to stow away!” Melwiliel cried out in frustration. “Tell me you still have them!”

There was about a minute or two of dumbstruck stupor in which he blinked at her owlishly, but once that was over, Alistair slung his pack to the ground, dropped into a crouch beside it, and started rummaging through it. Melwiliel watched him anxiously, hugging herself, not blushing once at the sight of smallclothes, and her breath caught once Alistair brandished triumphantly the aged parchment. Once more, time seemed to come to a haltering stop as they stood, heads bowed, staring mutely at the precious treaties. It was Alistair who breached the revered silence.

“Well, we have the treaties... All we need to do is...”

“We?!?” Melwiliel interrupted. “We?! How am I supposed to recruit armies of dwarves, elves and men? I'm a healer, not a... not a...”

“Not a what?” he asked somewhat harshly, and she threw her arms in the air, a blend of frustration, panic and hopelessness tinging her thoughts.

“I don't know!” Melwiliel cried, green eyes narrowing and burning fiercely. “Not a diplomat, not a leader, and certainly not a commander of armies!”

“But you *are* a Grey Warden.” he reminded her angrily before his fierce expression softened, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. “Besides... If Duncan deemed you worthy of becoming one of us, then so do I, and I *can't* do this alone.”

In the end, the mage couldn't resist his pleading gaze, realizing he didn't relish this massive task any more than she did, and she nodded. As she let out a shaky breath, she saw Alistair could barely conceal how relieved he was.

“Thank you.” he added softly, raising his gaze and taking in the growing shadows with increasing trepidation in his eyes. “Listen... We'd best get moving soon. I'm no scout, and the darkspawn are bound to pick up my trail, even though I avoided them as best I could.”

“I'll get my pack and staff.”

With the sun gone and the only light coming from the cookfire and the hut's small windows, the hard stares Morrigan and her mother gave them as they approached were even more forbidding.

“Have you found what you were looking for, young man?” the old woman asked with an unpleasant cackle.

“Maybe...” answered Alistair in a guarded tone. “We thank you for all your help, but we really should be on our way.”

“At this hour?” She sounded almost amused as she shot a sidelong glance at Morrigan.

“Absolutely.”

“It seems to me that would be the very best way for Fereldan's last remaining Grey Wardens to get hopelessly lost in the Wilds, now wouldn't it?” If she had been amused before, the old woman's tone was now anything but light, and in a chilling flash of lucidity, Mel wondered how she knew so much.

“We mean no disrespect, and we are truly grateful for all your help, but the darkspawn will not be satisfied with Ostagar.” he replied, shaking his head.

“Fleeing, then, are we?” She almost seemed to be taunting them.

“Not... really.” said Alistair, his tone guarded. “Perhaps you should consider leaving yourselves,...” He threw a fleeting, sidelong glance at Melwiliel. “I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name.”

This time, Morrigan's mother threw her head back, laughing heartily, before answering him. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

Flemeth. When Mel heard that name, a name straight out of legends and folktales, small alarms bells started tolling shrilly in her mind, and her insides twisted with anxiety. It was all too fortuitous: the miraculous rescue, the magical powers, the knowledge of herbs, the uncanny foresight...

“We need to go. *Now*.” she nearly hissed in a fierce whisper at Alistair. It was all she could do to hide her relief when he didn't argue, a small, almost imperceptible nod the sole sign he had even heard her.

“Thank you for everything, Flemeth, Morrigan,” he nodded to each in turn. “Truly, we've delayed long enough.” As the two Wardens shouldered their gear, the witches stood and shared a long, searching look, before turning back to Alistair and Melwiliel.

“Take Morrigan with you, young Wardens.” offered Flemeth. “She knows the Wilds better than either of you, and her magic will help you get past the horde.” The young woman said nothing, her gaze proud and steady. Melwiliel was uncertain as how to proceed: on one hand, she did not wish angering or insulting Flemeth, and they *did* need to get out of the Wilds swiftly, but on the other hand, she did not relish traveling with an apostate. But their situation was precarious at best, and Mel was forced to admit to herself that they needed help.

“Very well, lead us out of these woods, then.”

Alistair seemed about to protest, but said nothing before nodding in ascent. Morrigan shouldered her own pack which had been stowed nearby; the young elf found it odd that she had been ready to leave on such short notice, but decided it would have been unwise to comment on it.

Finally, the three of them were ready to depart, and they made their way northwards. Behind them, the cookfire was now little more than smoldering embers, and before too long, the small hut and its lone remaining occupant were swallowed by the darkness.


	8. An Affectionate Companion

It had taken them all night to make their way out of the Wilds. More than once, as she tripped and fell time after time in the marshes of the Wilds, Melwiliel marveled at Morrigan’s knowledge of these woods, completely awed and humbled by her sense of direction and her ability to distinguish wetland from bog. Progress was slow, however, much to the swamp witch’s disapproval, and every time Mel stumbled, the stern rebuttal was audible in the sharp ‘tsk’. Weighed down by her heartache, pessimism, despair and her sodden robes, the elven mage felt the need to review the chain of events which had led her here.

Those long days, spent scurrying from one class to another, followed by quiet evenings during which she poured over countless scrolls and books… They seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago, and although she would never have admitted it, Mel still nursed the tender hope that she would wake up from all this, only to discover that all this nonsense regarding Blights and darkspawn had been but a dream, the product of a particularly vivid history book. No such luck so far. Gone were the earnest prayers for Jowan’s safety; the young girl was now holding him responsible for all her woes, and resolved to beat him into a bloody pulp with her staff when she saw him next. *If* she ever saw him again, she amended soberly.

As Melwiliel lurched forward, irritating Morrigan even further, she suddenly noticed that Alistair was no longer in front of her. He was now beside her, observing her gingerly. Mel couldn’t decide which was more annoying: that she had allowed her attention to waver, or that he was studying her as if she were some dangerous specimen.

“What is it?!” she snapped, a bit vexed.

“Well, … I’d offer a hand to help you steady yourself, but with that look on your face, I was afraid you’d bite me.” His lopsided smirk did nothing for her mood, but she simply sighed and took the arm he held out. Melwiliel even managed not to cringe. In truth, his assistance was not required for long as the swamp soon gave way to greener lowlands, but it was certainly welcome. Between the toll her wounds had taken on her strength and the night’s long walk, she was utterly exhausted. Alistair had insisted they should keep going, but now that dawn was approaching, Melwiliel had hoped for some respite.

“How much further, Alistair?”

The former templar’s eyes were out of focus, as if he could see further away than any of them. “A little longer,” he said simply, all traces of the earlier humor completely vanished.

She hoped it wouldn’t be too long: her pack’s straps seemed to be sawing their way through her shoulders, and she was certain she had never walked so much in her entire life.

~***~

Alistair was true to his word and called a halt before too long. The trio managed to find a dry patch and settled down around the fire pit Morrigan was digging. As the two Wardens spread out their bedrolls close to it, the Witch of the Wilds straightened, eyeing them each in turn.

“Well, if I am to travel with you, I suppose ‘twould be wiser for me to replenish my herb stores. I cannot imagine either of you will go long without needing my potions.” And with that, she vanished in the dense lowland vegetation, leaving two dumbfounded Wardens behind her.

It took them a few minutes to recover before they shifted and stared at each other in amazement.

“Does she truly mean to stay with us beyond Lothering?” asked Melwiliel.

“It sure seems like it.”

They sat in silence, slowly digesting the implications. Gradually, the mage came to a realization.

“We *could* use the help, Alistair.”

“What ?!?” The former templar was positively fuming. “Have you gone completely insane? You know very well what amount of trouble that could get us in! She’s an *apostate*, for crying out loud, and it’s bad enough that…” He trailed off, looking rather sheepish.

“What’s bad enough?” hissed the young woman. “That I’m an elf? Or that I’m a *mage*.”

“Oh stop it, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” sputtered Alistair.

“Do I?”

“You know perfectly well there’ll be a Chantry there, and possibly templars, and you know as I do what templars do to apostates, to mages outside the Circle!”

“And here I thought I was a Warden now!”

“You ARE!”

“Lovers’ quarrels?”

Neither Alistair nor Mel had heard Morrigan’s stealthy return, and such was their surprise that they didn’t quite register her gratuitous joke at their expense. Alistair stood and Melwiliel followed suit soon after.

“Do you mean to travel with us, then? After Lothering, I mean” he asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

“’Tis the notion, yes. Was Mother not clear when she said ‘take Morrigan with you’?”

“But I thought… don’t you…” He faltered. “Help me out here, Mel.”

“What he means to say is that we had understood that you would only lead us out of the Wilds and guide us to Lothering, no further.” Melwiliel had tried to phrase that as diplomatically as possible.

“Well, of course, but ‘tis my understanding that you are in great need of assistance. Besides, ‘twas Mother’s idea, and I intend to do as she commanded. You would not be foolish enough to refuse aid when it is offered?” The golden-eyed woman arched an eyebrow and shifted her gaze to Alistair. “Well… perhaps he would be” she amended.

Swiftly elbowing her companion in the ribs before he could protest, Mel did the only thing she could think of. Against her better judgement, she accepted.

“Well, it’s settled then, Morrigan.” And without missing a beat, she pulled her fellow Warden aside.

‘Listen Alistair, I like it as little as you do, but she does have a point.” The words tumbled out unceasingly. “We can’t do this alone, and apostate or no, we’re going to need *help*. Besides, remember what Flemeth said; I wouldn’t be surprised if she had talents other than herblore.”

The former templar just rolled his eyes and sighed. “We’re going to regret this, you know.”

“What choice do we have?” she whispered.

Those softly spoken words hung in the air, and Alistair could only nod soberly. They stood there in silence for a few minutes, the seriousness of their situation sinking in anew, as if the hours of trekking through the Wilds had somewhat lessened the urgency of their predicament.

“Maybe she can cook,” quipped Alistair.

And then Mel swayed, lightheaded and drained.

“Maybe you should get some rest before we move on,” he told her with a gentle smile. Mel found his tone mocking and a bit condescending, but she didn’t have the strength to fight back.

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

~***~

After a brief rest, some water and rations, the three of them got back on the road. The notion was to reach Lothering before nightfall, if at all possible. Mel had removed her shoes during their break and putting them back had been almost more than she could bear. To add insult to injury, Alistair had actually looked at her askance, an eyebrow raised. “You’re going to need real boots.” As much as it grieved her to admit it, he had a point. Those shoes were made for Circle hallways, not Wilds marshes. They were even beginning to show signs of wear that only result from years of shuffling in the Circle’s libraries.

At this stage, though, there was nothing to be done. Mel hoped they would be able to find a cobbler in Lothering. Barring that, perhaps some of the folk would be willing to sell theirs. As she pondered where she’d find new footwear, the young mage was completely oblivious to the rustling in the nearby vegetation. Only Alistair’s cry of alarm pulled here from her reverie.

“Darkspawn!”

As she fumbled for her staff, she saw Alistair already had sword and shield at the ready. Off to the side, Morrigan was readying a spell Mel recognized as a hex of some sort. When two taller darkspawn burst out towards them, they were ready. Between Alistair’s confident sword strikes, Morrigan’s hex and frost spells and Mel’s arcane bolts, the hurlocks were soon felled.

Alistair approached one of the darkspawn, turning it over gingerly with his foot. Curious, Mel joined him.

“How come I didn’t sense them?” she asked, somewhat disappointed.

The young man looked up and stared at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

“When we went searching for the treaties, you said Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Well I’m a Grey Warden now, why can’t I sense them?” It was all very new and incredibly puzzling to her. She didn’t like that. “I couldn’t feel a thing at the Tower of Ishal but I thought today…”

Unfortunately, Alistair wasn’t very helpful. He just shrugged. “Well, it’s different for everybody, and it doesn’t always happen right away. And it’ll be easier when you’re faced with larger groups. There were only two here.”

Mel shivered. “I’m not in a hurry to be ‘faced with larger groups’ again…”

“Yes, well, we won’t have much of a choice, it’s what Wardens *do*.” Alistair reminded her as he bent over to clean his sword on the grass. “We better get moving. These could be scouts, maybe there’s an emissary nearby, and-”

Once more, there was a faint rustling nearby. This time, the mage was immediately on alert.

“But I didn’t feel anything!” sputtered the young man.

“Darkspawn aren’t the only thing that inhabit these parts, you fool!” cried Morrigan.

The three of them waited, tensed and anxious, for what seemed an eternity.

Until a mabari hound jumped out, barking happily and bounding towards Melwiliel.

Sighing in relief, they eyed the new arrival. Morrigan lost interest rapidly, turning instead to some elfroot growing near the pathway. Alistair took a step back, crossed his arms and eyed the hound skeptically. Mel, however, was curious: she knelt to the ground and studied the large mabari. He seemed overjoyed to see her.

“I think he’s from the kennels at Ostagar!” She held out a hand, which the hound eagerly sniffed before nuzzling against it. His little stump of a tail wagged so hard, she thought his entire body should be vibrating.

“Careful, he might bite,” claimed the overly cautious Warden.

“Don’t be silly, Alistair.” The young mage felt a smile begin to curl her lips. “I think he likes me.” She tentatively reached out, letting fingers touch fur, and started scratching. Mel hadn’t thought it possible, but the Mabari’s tail wagged even harder.

“Oh, you’re such a good dog, aren’t you?” she cooed. She hadn’t thought *that* possible either, and yet here she was. “You came all the way from Ostagar to find us, didn’t you?”

The hound gave a short yap, which very clearly meant ‘yes’. “I think he was looking for you, specifically,” added Alistair. “You do know Mabari choose their masters for life, don’t you?” He sounded sullen, but she barely paid attention.

“I do!” exclaimed Mel, still looking and petting the dog. He seemed to like that, and it was incredibly cathartic after all that had happened. “It’s called imprinting.”

“Lucky you.” Though Alistair was being sarcastic, she knew she was. Mabaris were war hounds, after all, and fiercely loyal to their masters. She already felt somewhat safer, as silly as that would’ve sounded.

Behind them, they heard Morrigan scoff. “How odd. We now have a dog and Alistair is still the dumbest one in the party.”

Alistair rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“It’s settled then, you’re coming with us!” Mel took a quick peek. “So how are we going to call you, you good boy, you ?!” She had both hands behind his ears now. As she rubbed, she gave it some thought. “How about… ‘Calenhad’? And perhaps ‘Calen’ for short?”

Alistair was bewildered. “You’re naming him after a *lake*?”

“No,” replied Melwiliel, somewhat annoyed. “I’m naming him after a *king*. Didn’t the templars teach you anything?”

“Oh. Right.” Well, at least he had the good sense to sound sheepish. The Mabari seemed to approve the name, so that was that. Her very own Mabari. Mel felt as if this whole endeavor was like something out of her books.

The Witch of the Wilds had long since finished her elfroot harvest and was growing impatient, though. “If you all are quite finished catching fleas from the mongrel, perhaps we could keep moving? Perhaps reach Lothering before nightfall?”

And they did. With one hand on her staff and the other curled in the Mabari’s fur, Melwiliel walked in the small village of Lothering, a former templar and an apostate in tow.


End file.
